


Touch

by Callyopey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callyopey/pseuds/Callyopey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's tactile-love for Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

It has been two months. The longest we have been separated in years. Again I feel the necessity to touch. To re-map every inch of his body, the soft, the hard, the smooth, the rough. With light touches of fingertips, with sure touches of hands, with brushes of lips, with kisses, with licks of tongue, with the soft skin of the thigh, with cock. To touch and to be touched back.

After the war, just after the trials, after his testimony, we met in a flurry of angry words, apologies, anger and want. And this immense need to touch, like two almost-parallel streams meant to have met but never could. As if we had spent our whole lives straining towards each other but could not reach, could just about not reach. At the point that our fingers finally touched, we could not keep apart. It was as if a dam had broken. We were pulled towards each other, and hugged and hugged and hugged, wanting to meld our bodies into one, tanned and pale, white-blond and raven-black, green and grey. When our lips finally met, we drank of each other as if we had been lost in an oasis-less desert for years. When we finally undressed each other in the dark in a room in the _Leaky_ , we finally got to _touch_. We touched as if we needed to reconfirm with every brush of skin that the other was there, still there, there despite everything, there after everything. We did not have sex the first night (if this level of intimacy can be called non-sex); we mapped each other’s bodies with a variety of touches, of lips, of fingers, of skin, of our whole bodies. In the light of the morning, we finally got to see each other, to map with eyes what our hands and lips had mapped in the night. We could not _not-touch_ for too long, the desire to feel even greater than the desire to see. We had perhaps already fallen in love (or were falling – who knows when this had started?), but this was falling anew, a tactile-love. When I finally took him in my mouth, we could not stem it any more. All the slowness, the slow melting-ness of the previous night bled into a fury of passion. I needed to see him lose control, I needed to mark him, claim him. He was mine to touch, mine to taste, mine to possess. When I finally entered him, first slowly with fingers and then with cock, I knew I had arrived. Our streams had finally met. One river with two waters. He enveloped me, as I wished to envelop him. We met anew in a storm of passion, our bodies as fevered as they had been gentle. Our day of passion bled into night, and then into another day. We possessed each other again and again, drank of each other again and again. It was but the start.

It has been years since. We have pledged ourselves to each other. We vowed to the world and to magic to cherish and to love. We have kept our promises. We belong to each other even though we live our own lives. So why are these two months of separation impossible for me to bear? Why does my skin feel like it would burst if it doesn’t feel his touch? Why do my fingers feel that they are seeking something, _someone_ just beyond their reach? He will be back in a week. But each moment without him feels like torture. As if I have been thirsty for days, but the fountain of water is just beyond my reach. It feels like such a clichéd understatement to say it, but I wish he were here, _now_. This is what pure longing is.


End file.
